


you're the one in it with me

by brandonsaad (createadisaster)



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Chicago Blackhawks, Columbus Blue Jackets, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-26
Updated: 2015-07-26
Packaged: 2018-04-11 07:40:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4426949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/createadisaster/pseuds/brandonsaad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Brandon got traded,” Seabs interrupts.</p><p>Andrew, for the first time he can remember, is speechless. He clears his throat. “Yeah,” he says, forces a laugh, “to the Flames, a year ago.”</p><p>“Shawsy,” says Seabs, a little gently.</p><p>“Shit,” says Andrew.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you're the one in it with me

**Author's Note:**

> i am coping with the brandon saad trade by writing fic where he and andrew shaw have feelings and talk them out. also, excitement, because i LOVE me some cbj.
> 
> (i literally cannot believe my favorite player gets traded to my favorite team/the city that i live in immediately after i MOVE AWAY FOR A YEAR. life is truly unjust. see you in september 2016, columbus. take good care of bsaad until i get back.)
> 
> in beta news, WHAT would i do without kristen crosbutt? she held my hand through most of this fic and also helped me write the end of it. some of this is straight up word-for-word hers. she is so endlessly good to me. she also caught my typos. what a dear.
> 
> also, this fic is a surprise for jay toewses! it isn't any special jay-day. i just love him a lot and wanted to write him a thing. so! behold! a thing!

Andrew doesn’t hear it from Brandon. Andrew hears it from Seabs, because Seabs calls like, hey, how are you holding up, and Andrew was like what, what are you talking about how am I holding up, do you mean how am I holding up with being the most beautiful person in the already very beautiful country of Canada because honestly the pressure is really starting to get to me—

(“Brandon got traded,” Seabs interrupts.

Andrew, for the first time he can remember, is speechless. He clears his throat. “Yeah,” he says, forces a laugh, “to the Flames, a year ago.”

“Shawsy,” says Seabs, a little gently.

“Shit,” says Andrew.)

And then it turns out Seabs didn’t even hear it from anybody on the team, anyway, he heard it from some random radio host who heard it from Twitter to begin with, and nobody hears it from Brandon at all.

Seriously, Andrew asks around. Brandon hasn’t told _anyone_. Brandon has fucked off to South Carolina and hasn’t spoken to anybody except, like, the press, because he has to, and nobody can get in real contact with him. Andrew even texts George, _both_ Georges, and neither Jr. nor Sr. has anything helpful to tell him.

“I texted him,” Kaner says when Andrew asks. “But I don’t think he has read receipts on, so. I have no idea if he saw it.” Andrew knows he is trying to be helpful, but like. 

Come _on_ , Kaner. Andrew has also texted him. Obviously. Andrew has texted him about six gazillion times, probably. If the answer to “Have you heard from Saader, because I’m concerned that he may have fallen off the face of the earth with how little he wants to leave Chicago and Me, his Amazing Boyfriend” is just a text, there wouldn’t even be a _question._

Also, Brandon _should_ have read receipts on, given the amount of time Andrew has had to listen to him rail against people who don’t.

(“You know I saw the text anyway,” Brandon says, “Everybody sees every text. I’m not going to lie and pretend I didn’t see it to avoid talking to someone. Sometimes you just don’t want to talk to someone. They can cope with that knowledge.”

God, but he’s an asshole sometimes, and only Andrew ever gets to see it. He loves him so much it hurts, and Brandon _always_ texts him back.)

Anyway. Brandon’s turned off read receipts or maybe his phone altogether, because everyone’s texted, and a few people have called, and nobody’s gotten an answer.

Brandon’s traded on the 30th. He signs on the 3rd. Andrew follows the news obsessively on Twitter, texts Laz a few times more than is appropriate, and feels more like a stalker than a boyfriend. 

Brandon doesn’t call.

Andrew’s day with the Cup comes and goes. The convention comes and goes. 

Brandon doesn’t call. 

“All my friends get traded,” he tells the crowd, and the joke lands, and the audience laughs, and Brandon doesn’t call.

Andrew’s in line to check his bag for his flight back home, and it’s at a fucking standstill. He can’t see far enough ahead of him to see what the wait’s about, so he keeps looking at his phone to distract himself from how fucking restless he always gets in airports, but his background is still a selfie he took of the two of them that he hasn’t been able to bring himself to change, because Andrew’s totally cheesin’ it for the camera and Brandon is looking at Andrew, caught in this moment of totally earnest sincerity and adoration and _love_ , and after Andrew took it and they looked at it, Brandon just went, “Wow, I am _gay_ for you,” and Andrew was like, “You’re bisexual for me, babe, but who am I to tell you how to identify,” and then Brandon started laughing and then he started kissing him, and—anyway, Andrew isn’t ready to change it to something else just yet, even if it means his heart aches every time he checks the time.

He presses the lock button and watches the screen go black. He glances a few desks down, at the ticket counter, and then he just thinks, _fuck it,_ gets out of the line with a few mumbles of “excuse me” and “sorry, coming through,” and all of a sudden he’s leaning over the desk and asking, “Can you get me on the next flight to Columbus?”

The guy behind the counter taps at his keyboard, peers at the screen. “It looks like they’re mostly booked today,” he says, “The next one I can definitely get you on is at… eight.”

“Eight _tonight_?” says Andrew. “I could drive there in that time, man.” 

“I’m sorry,” he says, “That’s the next open seat. Would you like to purchase that ticket? Or I can put you on standby for one of the earlier flights…”

Andrew thinks about it. He’s already antsy, and he glances around, and then there’s a sign, and like, not just a sign in the abstract sense but a literal fucking sign that says RENTAL CARS → in big white letters, and it’s hanging from the ceiling like in every airport there is. “No,” he says, “No, I don’t need a seat,” and of a sudden he’s booking it down the huge walkway so fast he’s a little worried TSA is going to tackle him.

He picks which company he’ll try first by nature of it being the first one he comes to. He leans over the counter and says, “Got a car for me?”

It’s a six-hour drive to Columbus. 

Andrew’s not wasting any more time.

-

In the car, Andrew calls Nick to ask if he’s heard anything from Brandon. Nick hasn’t.

“So you don’t have like… an address in Columbus, then, do you,” says Andrew.

“No,” Nick says, “but I’m willing to bet you aren’t going to let that get in your way.”

“Got it in one,” says Andrew. “Any chance you can help me out here? I’ve got four and a half hours before it gets critical, but. I need some backup on this one, buddy.”

Nick sighs. It’s a ‘I know there’s no stopping you at this point, and I know I probably shouldn’t encourage you, but I love you and I’m going to do what you need me to anyway because I’m the best friend in the whole world’ sigh. Andrew’s heard it many times before, and he smiles before Nick even answers him.

“I’ll ask around,” Nick says. “Call you back in a little while, okay?”

“Okay,” Andrew says, smug. Nick always comes through for him.

-

Nick calls back about an hour later. 

“Hit me,” Andrew says, “What’d you find out?”

“I asked Johnny,” Nick says, “Tavares. And Johnny talked to Crosby for me, and Crosby talked to Johnson, Jack Johnson? And he said that Scott Hartnell’s talked to Brandon, and that Brandon’s staying in the Sheraton in downtown Columbus. Plus I asked Smitty, ‘cause Smitty knows Atkinson, and he said Atkinson heard the same thing from Johansen who heard it from Foligno, so. Sheraton. Downtown.”

Nick _always_ comes through for him.

-

The drive goes fast. Indiana is not very exciting, but at least it’s also not very big. Andrew speeds through country highways and tries not to let his heart beat too fast.

-

There’s valet parking. Andrew grabs his duffel, because honestly, he’s got no idea where to start to find Brandon, and he figures he may as well check in. He had called a few more times as he approached the city, and one more while the car was being parked, and every single one went to voicemail after a ring or two. And that’s not Brandon turning his phone off or not noticing a call, that is Brandon _actively ignoring_ him, and well—

Andrew doesn’t really respond well to being ignored. 

He books a room for “I’m not really sure how long, yet, a few days,” and hopes that he can just—find Brandon and then bunk with him. For cuddling. And sex. And morning zombie Brandon. Of all the dumb tiny Brandon things Andrew’s really missed over the last month, the fuzzy, groggy way Brandon blinks at him when he wakes up is pretty high on the list.

Step one, check in. Step two, haul his duffel upstairs and take a quick shower, because he’s spent all day in a rental car and he feels a little gross. Step three is find Brandon, though he’s not quite sure how to do it. He’s considering knocking on every door of every floor. 

He jabs the up button and waits for the elevator. Maybe he could bribe housekeeping. That might be faster than a thorough search. He’s debating the pros and cons of outsourcing his quest when the elevator door opens, and—

Andrew’s quest just got a lot shorter. 

Brandon’s standing there, with his hair cut way too short, and his tshirt a little rumpled, and he hasn’t seen Andrew yet but god, Andrew sees _him_ , and he knows he’s smiling like an idiot but he can’t bring himself to _care_ , he hasn’t seen him and he hasn’t talked to him and he knows Brandon is hurting but fuck, _fuck_ , fuck if he didn’t miss him so much it ached.

Brandon looks up.

“ _Andy_?” he says, looking not angry or happy or anything, just _startled_ , and Andrew’s barely got time to nod before the doors start closing. Brandon flings his arm out like it’s a reflex, and he catches the motion sensor of the door, gets it open again and Andrew darts onto the elevator. 

Nobody else was waiting to get on, everybody else has gotten off. Brandon’s got his back to the wall. 

“What—are you doing here,” Brandon says.

“You’re here,” Andrew says, “so I’m here.”

“This isn’t happening,” Brandon says, which—okay, not really the response Andrew was expecting, because, like, yeah, he gets that Brandon’s been hiding and everything, but Andrew came a long fucking way to see him and to fix this.

He smiles, tries to keep it light. “What, you been dreaming about me so hard you think I came true?”

Brandon doesn’t say anything for a long moment, then he sighs and rubs his eyes. “What floor are you on?” he says, “I think we should talk.”

“We can go to your room,” Andrew suggests.

“No,” Brandon says immediately and with finality, so Andrew presses 7 without further argument. Brandon is looking at his shoes with great scrutiny. Andrew is still looking at Brandon.

The elevator dings, they walk to 739 in silence. Andrew feels a little bit like he’s buzzing out of his skin, but even he knows that there’s a time and place to be quiet. 

The hotel room is like every other hotel room Andrew’s ever been in. He drops the duffel on the floor, sits on the edge of the bed. Brandon is standing there, stiff and tense, and Andrew reaches his hands out for him, takes him by the wrists and tugs him gently to stand between his legs. 

“Hey,” Andrew says, slides his hands up Brandon’s arms, lets them settle on his shoulders. “Hey, B.”

“Your hair’s too long,” Brandon mumbles, not responding at all, looking down at the floor between them.

“Yours is too short,” Andrew says, the response automatic, and he looks up at him. “Hey. Look at me, babe. Look at me, I’m _here._ ”

“ _Andy_ ,” Brandon says, and Andrew reaches up, wraps his arms around Brandon’s neck, pulls him down close. Brandon brings one arm around Andrew’s waist and lets the other hand cradle the back of his head, and he presses his face into Andrew’s neck, and Andrew just rubs his shoulder blades, _feels_ all the tension bleed out of him the longer he holds him.

They stay like that for a long time, but Andrew’s a little worried about Brandon’s back, so he scoots backwards on the bed, makes room for Brandon to follow.

Brandon doesn’t, though, he lets go of Andrew and stands up. His spine gets stiff and straight all over again. He clears his throat, like he always does when he’s trying too hard to compose himself, and he goes to run a hand through his hair like he _always_ does when he’s forgotten he just cut it all off.

“I don’t think you should have come here,” Brandon says, and for all that Andrew knows his habits and his mannerisms, his words are a shock.

“What else was I supposed to do?” he says, and he’s trying not to get too defensive but Jesus, Brandon got traded and then he just packed up and _left_ , and he’s been ignoring Andrew, and he’s been too worried to be angry but now the anger’s threatening to creep in and hit him all at once. “You wouldn’t talk to me.”

“Doesn’t that seem kind of like a hint?” Brandon snaps, and it hits him hard. If Andrew were a less stubborn creature, he’d leave it here—but if Andrew were a less stubborn creature, he’d never have come at all.

He forces himself to shrug it off. “I don’t like hints,” he says. “You gotta talk to me, B.” Brandon doesn’t say anything, just shifts and looks away, and so Andrew presses on. “You didn’t even—you didn’t even tell me you were leaving, you just _left_. I found out from Seabrook and then you were _gone._ ”

“I didn’t know how to break up with you,” Brandon says after an excruciating silence. “I was hoping you wouldn’t make me do it.”

“I’m not going to make you do it,” Andrew says, “because we’re not breaking up.”

“Of course we’re breaking up,” Brandon says, and it lands like a punch to the gut. “I’m moving to fucking _Ohio._ We’re gonna play each other twice a season. I’m not—what’s the point? Why stay together if it’s going to be like that?”

“The point, asshole, is that I love you,” Andrew says, like it’s obvious. It _is_ obvious. Of all the dumbass things either one of them has ever said, ‘What’s the point?’ has to be at the top of the list. “Don’t be an idiot.”

Brandon takes a deep breath, rubs his eyes with the palm of his hands. “I signed a contract,” he says, “I’m going to be here for _six years_. I’m not—this is what I’m doing now.”

“Okay,” Andrew says, “What’s stopping you from doing it with me?”

“You’re in Chicago!” he says, and his voice gets loud. Brandon’s harder around the edges than Andrew’s used to. “What the fuck am I supposed to do with that? I was—I won the Cup _there_ , with _them_ , with _you,_ and then they just fuck me over and send me to Columbus, and I’m not about to act like nothing’s different!”

“I’m not asking you to,” Andrew starts, a little startled, but Brandon cuts him off.

“You’re asking me to keep playing pretend with you,” Brandon says, “but I can’t. We always had an expiration date, Andy, it’s just—here sooner than we expected it to be.”

“Brandon,” says Andrew slowly, patiently. He doesn’t feel anything of the sort—he feels the anger and the frustration building up in his chest, and the _hurt_ hasn’t gone away yet, but he’s here, he’s here with Brandon, and if Brandon needs Andrew to be patient then goddamn it he’ll figure something out. “You’re being a dick. So how about you take a nap, and I take a shower and a nap, and then we can talk about this like adults.”

“You have,” Brandon says slowly, “everything I want. You have Chicago still. You get the future I was supposed to have. I’m not going to just—watch you keep living the life we had together _without me_ from five hundred miles away.”

“Only three fifty,” says Andrew, “I drove it today.”

Brandon groans, tilts his head back. “I don’t need a nap,” he says, “I think I need a _drink_.”

Andrew stands up, gets his hands on Brandon’s waist (where they fucking _belong,_ thanks), and steers him towards the bed. “Nap first,” he says, “I’m gonna shower. And we’ll _talk._ ”

“I don’t have,” Brandon insists, “anything to say,” but he lets Andrew gently push him down onto his back.

“Please don’t leave,” Andrew says, and he meant for it to come out in a “because it’s going to be a huge pain in the ass to find you again and I really didn’t want to deal with negotiating with and/or bribing the cleaning staff” kind of way, but the moment he says it he _knows_ it sounds much more like a “because I don’t know if I can take another second of you walking away” kind of way, and he winces, and he watches Brandon process it, and he knows how Brandon heard it, because his face goes all soft and gentle in that way of his that usually makes Andrew feel safe and today just makes him feel pitied.

“Okay, Andy,” Brandon says, and he finally looks him in the eyes. “I won’t.”

-

When Andrew gets out of the shower, Brandon is asleep with his shoes on and his face mashed into the pillow. Andrew’s angry and hurt and confused all at once, but goddamn if his heart doesn’t go all wonky and fuzzy when Brandon lets out a little snore.

-

Andrew doesn’t wake him up. He puts on clean clothes, just shorts and a tshirt, and they’ve been scrunched up in his suitcase for a few days but at least they haven’t spent all day in a rental car.

He looks at Brandon, lying there on the bed. His hair _is_ cut too short, and it looks wrong, somehow, that it’s not falling all over the pillow and his face. The last time Andrew saw him, it was long enough to pull back into a truly delightful bun, and it was constantly getting in his face when they were trying to go to sleep.

Brandon doesn’t look like he’s had a moment of peace since Andrew’s seen him last. He feels a pang of guilt for ambushing him this way, but—but he _had_ to, but Brandon just _left_ him. And now he’s asleep in a hotel bed, because he promised not to leave again.

Andrew knows him well enough to know he wasn’t ever going to ask for what he needs here. He’s not sure if it’s wishful thinking to assume that he himself could be what Brandon needs.

He climbs onto the bed carefully, tries not to let it dip and disturb him. Brandon sleeps like a rock; it shouldn’t matter too much. If they were home, he wouldn’t have any qualms about just lifting Brandon’s arm and snuggling under it, but—but they’re not home. He turns his back to Brandon, faces the door, keeps his distance.

He’s just going to shut his eyes for a second.

-

When he wakes up, the room is dark and Brandon is all curled around him. Andrew can feel his breath on the back of his neck, the slow even rise and fall of his chest against his back. Brandon’s arm is a heavy, warm weight circled around him, one of his legs is tucked safely between each of Andrew’s.

Andrew decides he can sleep a little longer.

-

Brandon’s not in the bed when Andrew wakes up. There’s first a moment of _really_ embarrassing panic, where he sits up too fast and looks around the room a little frantically. The relief when he sees Brandon sitting in the armchair in the corner, playing on his phone, is honestly more embarrassing than the panic.

“You didn’t leave,” he finds himself saying, still a little stupid with sleep.

“No,” Brandon agrees, “I didn’t. You about ready for that drink?”

Andrew sits up a little straighter, rubs his eyes. “Yeah, okay,” he says. “Bar or store?”

“Store, I think,” Brandon says, “If we spend any time in the hotel bar people are going to, uh—approach us. Notice you, probably.”

“Can’t have that,” Andrew says, tries not to let any bitterness creep into his voice, and stands up. “We gonna talk about—anything?”

“Drink first, okay?” Brandon says, and gets up, puts his shoes on. Andrew doesn’t know when he took them off. “Do you have a car?”

“Yeah,” Andrew says. “You don’t?”

“I’m still—putting some things together here,” Brandon says, shifts uncomfortably and puts his hands in his pockets. “My car’s in Chicago, I’m going to have to figure it out.”

Andrew gets to his feet, a little unsteady, and digs through the pockets of the jeans he’d been wearing for his wallet and his keys. “I’ve been driving all day,” he says, “And I have no idea where we’re going. Can you handle it?” He tosses the keys to Brandon without really looking, and when he’s glanced up, Brandon’s caught them, just like he knew he would.

“Yeah,” Brandon says. “I’ve got it.”

The walk to the car is quiet. So is the drive. Andrew looks out the window and just watches the city—the sun’s gone down, but it’s not empty by any means. They drive past the arena. “It’s cool that it’s right downtown,” Andrew offers. “Close to everything.”

“Practice rink is attached,” says Brandon, a little dully. “Can we like—not talk about Columbus?”

“Um,” says Andrew.

“I’m sorry,” Brandon says, “I’ve just—I haven’t been able to talk about or think about anything else, and I just—I don’t really want to keep thinking about it.”

“Okay,” Andrew agrees, and he wants to reach out, put his hand on Brandon’s shoulder or knee, but—something in him thinks better of it. He keeps his hands to himself.

-

Brandon takes them to a grocery store instead of a liquor store, and Andrew realizes all at once that he’s ravenous. “Hey, B,” he says, leans over the cart to poke at Brandon’s ribcage a little. “I drove a long way to come see you. You gotta take me out to dinner.”

“Hmm?” says Brandon, who is currently perusing the wine selection very seriously, like all alcoholic grape juice doesn’t taste exactly the same.

“I’m hungry,” Andrew repeats. 

“We’re in a grocery store,” Brandon says, picks up a bottle, reads the back, puts it down again.

“Brandon,” he whines, “Feed me. It’s my _birthday_ , you have to be nice to me.”

“It’s not your birthday,” Brandon says automatically, then turns and looks at him. “ _Shit._ ”

“What?” Andrew asks, a little alarmed. 

“It’s your birthday,” Brandon says, “You drove six hours and it’s your _birthday_ , and—Andy, I’m an asshole.”

“I know,” Andrew agrees. 

“I’m gonna make you a cake,” Brandon says, and he’s so totally, wonderfully, deadpan serious about it that Andrew doesn’t even know how to respond. “Seriously, there’s a kitchen in my suite, I’m going to bake you the best fucking cake, Andy, I am _so_ sorry—happy birthday— _shit._ ” 

“It’s really okay,” Andrew says, “Honestly, I forgot until my mom called.”

“I’m the worst boyfriend ever,” Brandon mumbles.

Andrew perks the hell up. “You’re still my boyfriend?” he says, a little too loud for the setting, and Brandon gives him a Look.

“We’ll talk after dinner,” he says, “And cake.”

“I feel like you’re procrastinating on having this conversation about our relationship,” Andy tells him very seriously, “and I’m not going to let you get away with it forever.”

“I know,” Brandon says, and puts a bottle of wine in the cart, having apparently finally made up his mind. “After cake, I promise. Triple chocolate with vanilla frosting and rainbow sprinkles?”

“Will you write on the icing?” Andrew wants to know. “And can we get candles?”

Brandon looks at him, smiles a little. “Anything you want.” 

He heads off with the cart, presumably to start his search for cake ingredients, and Andrew’s just—he’s processing, because he _wants_ so bad to fall back into this like everything is okay, but he keeps getting the pressing fear that every single smile is going to be the last one, and yeah, there’s going to be cake, but that doesn’t change that they need to _talk_ and Brandon just keeps _avoiding_ it, because that’s what he does when he gets scared, he avoids, and he procrastinates, and he doesn’t just come out and say what he’s feeling, and Andrew’s willing to play along for a little while, he really is, but—

“Hey,” Brandon says, looking over his shoulder from fifteen feet away. “Andy, you coming?”

After cake. He promises. 

Andrew hurries to catch up with him, and Brandon smiles. He leans in a little bit, puts his hand on Andrew’s upper arm. “I am really sorry,” he whispers, “I promise I didn’t forget, I just—”

“You’ve had a lot going on,” Andrew says, smiles a little bit. “And I get to see you. That was the most important part.” 

It’s not until he says it that he realizes it’s true. Defining the relationship, talking about the trade, figuring out what they’re going to do… none of it is important the way just seeing him, being with him is important. For all that they’re still up in the air, Andrew sort of feels like a little piece of his heart’s been slotted back into place.

Brandon gives a brief squeeze to his arm and then drops his hand down to Andrew’s, laces their fingers together. He looks back at the shelves. “Chocolate cake,” he muses, and glances back at him.

“With vanilla frosting,” Andrew confirms, and dares to bring Brandon’s hand up to his lips and press a kiss to his knuckles. Brandon smiles. 

Andrew thinks they could be okay, maybe.

They’ll talk after cake. He promises.

-

“How about,” Brandon says once they’ve gotten back in the car, “we pick up a pizza on the way back?”

“So we can invest all our energy in making a cake?” Andrew suggests. “Wait, let me rephrase that. So _you_ can invest all _your_ energy in making a cake, and I can eat an entire pizza.”

Brandon laughs and puts one hand on Andrew’s leg, keeping the other on the wheel. “That’s exactly why,” he says.

-

Brandon’s suite is way nicer than Andrew’s room. City view, wet bar, couches and shit. It’s basically just an apartment, which—Andrew suspects is kind of the point. He wonders if the Jackets are planning on putting him up with anybody on the team or just letting him fend for himself (and, if it’s fend for himself, he wonders how long Brandon’s going to stay in this hotel instead of finding an actual place). 

“Okay,” Brandon says. He points Andrew towards the coffee table in the—living room? Lobby? The room is really just excessively large—to set the pizza down, and then takes the grocery bags into the kitchen. “Step one, pizza. Step two, wine. Step three, cake.”

“Wine before cake?” Andrew asks. “That sounds detrimental to the whole, uh, baking process.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Brandon laughs, heads back towards the couch and sinks onto it. “It’s gonna be fine.” He flicks the box open and reaches for a slice of pizza, then settles back into the couch. “Come eat.”

“Do we want to combine steps one and two?” suggests Andrew, “I can get the wine.”

Brandon grins. “Good call.”

When Andrew sits back down, leans back on the couch with a slice of pizza and the bottle of wine, he keeps his distance from Brandon. He sits down sideways, with his back leaned against the arm, legs bent at the knee. He rests his feet a totally reasonable, sane, and it’s-complicated-relationship-status foot and a half away. 

Brandon hooks his arm underneath Andrew’s legs and scoops them out from under him, drops them on his lap so Andrew’s all stretched out over him. 

“Brandon,” Andrew says hesitantly. He obviously doesn’t _mind_ using Brandon’s lap as a place to leave his legs, or the handholding in the grocery store or the knee touch in the car, but he’s still just—waiting for the other shoe to drop. “I don’t—I’m sorry, you have to tell me what I’m supposed to be doing here. Are we—”

“After cake,” Brandon says, and reaches over, takes the wine bottle. “We haven’t even started wine and pizza yet. Step four is the talk, okay? Right now, let’s just—be here, okay? Me and you and your birthday and this pizza.”

“My four favorite things,” Andrew agrees. If Brandon is determined to keep it light, then Andrew’s going to let him. “It would only be better with nudity and Sandra Bullock.”

“Your six favorite things,” Brandon says with a little laugh, and then takes a sip straight from the bottle. Andrew watches the way his fingers close around the neck of the bottle, the long, smooth line of his throat as he tips his head back.

Andrew’s head feels a little warm, and he hasn’t even started drinking. He takes a deep breath and then a bite of pizza. 

Brandon passes the wine back and then rests his hand on Andrew’s leg, stroking his thumb gently over his anklebone. 

Andrew busies himself with the wine so he doesn’t have to see how Brandon’s looking at him, soft and sweet and sad all at once. He’s not sure how this is going to end yet, and if having the conversation means Brandon’s going to say goodbye, and they get to pretend otherwise for a little while longer—he’ll wait until after cake.

-

To Andrew’s great surprise, wine actually _does_ really benefit the cake-making process. Brandon gets all silly-giggly the way he always does when he’s walking that (wobbly) line between tipsy and drunk. 

“I wish,” he announces, “that I had packed my ice cream maker. So I could make ice cream. For us. Tonight.”

“Thanks, honey,” Andrew says, hops up on the counter of the bar and watches Brandon get out bowls. “Is it still in Chicago?”

“Almost all my shit is still in Chicago,” Brandon says.

Andrew—knows that. He has a key to Brandon’s place, and he went there a few days after the trade was announced. It honestly almost looks like he lives there, still, and only stepped out for the afternoon. The only things missing are some of his clothes and half of his kitchen. “You packed your mixing bowls,” he says, “and your 12 by 9 pan. To make cake.”

“And brownies,” Brandon mumbles, “I have been eating so much dessert.”

Andrew knows that, too. Not that Brandon’s any softer than usual, or anything, just that his boy is a stress baker and he has got to be _stressed_. Brandon looks like he’s starting to fade, get a little sad about the apartment he doesn’t live in anymore and the trade to a city he wasn’t expecting, and Andrew agreed to have the talk after cake, so Andrew kicks his heel against the side of the counter and says, “Do you want more wine?”

Brandon reaches one hand out for Andrew to pass him the bottle, which he does, and starts pouring miscellaneous ingredients into the bowl. Brandon is typically pretty quiet when he’s baking, and Andrew doesn’t really have the eye to follow what he’s doing, so he just sits and hums a little bit to himself.

“It’s my birthday,” Andrew says.

“I know,” Brandon says, “I’m making you a cake.”

“Will you sing?” Andrew wants to know. He loves the birthday song. When Bolly called at midnight, he sang it on the phone, but it’s just not the same.

“This is your birthday song,” Brandon sings, adorable and hilariously off-key, “It isn’t very long.” He thumps the end of his spoon on the counter to punctuate the end. It’s a musical masterpiece.

“Thank you,” Andrew says, “So much.”

“I do this because I love you,” Brandon says gravely.

Andrew brightens, sits up a little straighter. “I love you also,” he says immediately, “So much. So much. The most.”

“I know,” Brandon says, “you drove here today to come see me.”

“I did,” Andrew agrees, “because I _love_ you. And I missed you. And I was worried, B, you just fell off the face of the earth and—”

“That sounds like A Talk,” Brandon says, a little stern. Andrew can practically _hear_ the capital letters. “After cake.”

“You ran away from me,” Andrew says. “You just were gone.”

Brandon sets down the wooden spoon he’s been using to mix the batter, then looks over at Andrew. He walks towards him, steps between his legs, and takes his face in his hands. Andrew reaches up to curve his hands around Brandon’s arms, almost like a reflex, and Brandon gives him a deliberate, careful kiss.

“I’m not going to run anymore,” Brandon says, “Not from you.”

“You—you already did, though,” Andrew says, and after cake, they said _after cake_ , but he’s feeling all that fear and pain and missing him build up in his chest and it feels like he’s going to burst if he doesn’t just _say_ it, so he grips Brandon a little bit harder, pulls him in and holds him so, so tight.

“Andy,” Brandon says, drops his hands to wrap around Andrew’s waist, presses a kiss to his cheek. “Andy, I…”

Andrew just ducks his head into Brandon’s neck, fists his hands into his shirt. “That hurt me pretty bad,” he says, real soft, and somehow saying the words is too much and not enough.

He feels Brandon tense up in his arms, but Brandon’s holding him back just as tight. “I’m—I didn’t mean to,” Brandon says, “I didn’t want to. I just—I freaked out, and I fucked up, and I just…”

Andrew pulls back, and it takes a little effort; Brandon clearly doesn’t want to let go just yet. He keeps one arm around him but brings the other between them, very solemnly holds up a pinky.

“What,” says Brandon, blinks at him.

“You have to _promise_ me,” Andrew says, “right now.”

“A pinky promise,” Brandon says, like he’s skeptical, like he’s not taking him _seriously_. “Andy, you’re—”

“I’m _drunk_ ,” Andrew tells him, “and you’re drunk, and I want you to promise me _right now_ that we are going to eat my birthday cake and sober up and you are going to talk to me about all your stupid fucking feelings and you won’t go away again without telling me.”

Brandon looks at Andrew, then sighs. He leans in to press a truly outrageously delicate kiss to his pinky, then brings his own up to hook around it. “I promise,” Brandon says, and leans forward, leans his forehead against Andrew’s. “Andy, I’m—I’m so fucking sorry.”

Andrew lets out a deep breath, lets go of Brandon’s pinky just long enough to rearrange and take his whole hand. “Yeah,” he says. He doesn’t say _it’s okay_ because it’s not, and he doesn’t say _I understand_ because he doesn’t. 

“I just—they were supposed to keep me,” Brandon presses on, and he’s clearly getting a little upset. Whether it’s from the wine or the apology or just a whole bunch of floodgates opening all at once, Andrew can’t really say. “I was supposed to stay in Chicago, they told me they were going to, they said they’d do whatever they could to keep me and I really thought—” He cuts himself off, shuts his eyes.

Andrew leans in to kiss him, just once, real gentle. “Yeah,” he says softly, “Me too.”

Brandon stays like that for a moment, eyes shut, one hand tangled up with Andrew’s and the other pressed flat against his back, and then he draws away, lets go of him. He takes a deep breath and looks back at the counter. 

“I’m going to put your cake in the oven,” Brandon says. “Maybe we should talk now.”

Andrew’s stomach twists. He nods.

-

The oven timer is set for 35 minutes. Brandon sits down across from Andrew and says, “Let’s talk.”

-

Andrew doesn’t know what to say.

Andrew has spent the last month rehearsing exactly what he’s going to say to Brandon when he sees him again, and the longer Brandon spent ignoring him, the more creative Andrew’s word choices got. He was going to lay out that it was shitty of Brandon to just bolt, but that he loves him, and he’s committed to them, and Columbus, Ohio is not the goddamn moon so they can stay together and figure it out and it’ll all be okay now come here honey give me a kiss and promise me you’ll grow your hair out again starting right now because you look terrible.

Instead, he sits silently on the couch.

The words won’t come out.

“I should—I should probably open with another apology, huh,” Brandon says softly. “For—just shutting you out like that.”

Andrew nods, doesn’t look up.

“I just—I _freaked_ , Andy, I couldn’t handle any of it,” Brandon says. “I didn’t…none of it was supposed to happen like this.”

“Yeah,” Andrew says, raises his head, “but you—you didn’t have to just run. Earlier, you said it was a, a _hint_ , so you wouldn’t have to break up with me. That’s, that’s fucked up.”

“Yeah,” Brandon says, unflinching. “I needed the space. I’m sorry I hurt you. And I am—I’m really sorry I said everything I said earlier, I wasn’t expecting to see you and I was… I was an asshole.”

“You clearly aren’t really…doing great,” Andrew said, “I would have been here. I would have been anywhere.”

“I needed you not to be,” he answers, and Andrew hates that he doesn’t even look _guilty_ , just is telling him, straight-faced and unapologetic, that he needed Andrew to be—somewhere he wasn’t. “I feel like you don’t—like you don’t _get_ it, I needed to be far away.”

“It’s not that you needed a breather, B,” Andrew says, “It’s that you didn’t _tell_ me.”

Brandon sighs, runs a hand through his hair. “I’m—I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, then,” he says, “I really… I just couldn’t. I couldn’t deal with it. And you’re part of Chicago for me, Andy, I need you to understand that just—answering the phone was too much, too.”

“Then what am I doing here, Brandon?” Andrew asks, and he doesn’t know if he sounds resigned or angry or maybe a little bit of both. “If it was too much to send me a goddamn text, what am I _doing_ here?”

“I don’t know,” Brandon says, and it’s a twist of the knife. “I don’t know, Andy, you came to me.”

Andrew clenches his fists, feels his nails dig into the inside of his palms. He takes a deep breath. “Because,” he says, “I thought you’d be happy to see me. Or maybe just not—fucking moping like this, god damn it, Brandon—yeah, it blows, you got traded, we’ll miss you, it fucking _happens_. You went for 6 million dollars to a young, good team, and now you’re close to your family, and you’re still just sitting here feeling fucking sorry for yourself and shutting me out!”

Brandon opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, but Andrew’s finally fucking started and he’s not done.

“We talked about what we’d do if I got traded, remember? And then you were all fucking over long-distance, but now that it’s you, you’re so fucking full of yourself that you cant get past the fucking _grieving_ for yourself! Listen, Brandon, if we were just fucking _convenient_ , if you don’t want to see this through—”

“I didn’t say that,” Brandon blurts, eyes wide. 

“That’s what you’ve been saying for a month,” Andrew snaps. “If you don’t want me then you don’t, alright? But fuck off with the—with the cake and the kissing and the—all of this, just fucking stop it and tell me the truth. Are you in this or not?”

“This isn’t fair,” Brandon says, “It’s not—this isn’t fucking easy on me, Andy—”

“Nothing’s easy!” Andrew protests. “Of course it’s not easy! But I’m trying to help, I’m supposed to be here to make shit easier, and you just fucking walked away, decided to _run_ —”

“I didn’t decide anything!” Brandon bursts, “I didn’t get a _choice_!”

“You didn’t get to choose to leave Chicago,” Andrew says, and he’s surprised by how even his voice comes out. “You got to choose to leave me.”

“I don’t want to leave you,” Brandon says, urgent. “Look, Andy, I don’t want that, I’m not doing that—it was fucked up that I said it earlier, that’s not what I want. It’s just—”

Andrew waits. 

Brandon scrubs a hand over his face and ducks his head. “This wasn’t supposed to be so hard,” he says. “It was easier when it was like—a hypothetical. When I didn’t have to think about how bad I missed you, because you were right there. And I just, right now, I just keep thinking—that this won’t work, and I’m stupid to hang onto you, because you could have anything and anybody you wanted and you could have it at _home_ , in Chicago.”

Andrew takes a deep breath, reaches out and rests a hand on his knee. “Brandon,” he says, softens a little.

“I’m never going back there,” Brandon says. “You get that, right? Chicago’s your home and now I’m not in it. I’m not going to get traded back next year, or something. This is—this is it for me, this is where I’m gonna be. I don’t…I don’t get to go back.” 

“Maybe I’ll come to Columbus,” Andrew says, a little reckless. “And, honestly, just--who cares, B? If you want me, and I want you, who _cares_?”

“You deserve better than just, just Skype and texts and _maybe_ Christmas if the game schedules allow it,” Brandon says. “Is that really what you want?”

“I want you,” Andrew repeats. “And you want me.”

“Yeah,” Brandon says. “Yeah.”

“So like—so fuck it,” Andrew says, “Let’s do it, let’s try it. Stop _hiding_ and I’ll stop pushing so hard and we can just—figure it out.”

Brandon takes a deep breath, puts his hand on top of Andrew’s. “This is probably a really bad idea,” he says.

“I have _definitely_ had worse,” Andrew says, and squeezes his knee. “You could never be a bad decision, Brandon. Not for me.”

Brandon looks at him, all open and hopeful and melty, and leans over to steal a kiss. “Okay,” he whispers. “Okay.” 

Andrew smiles against his lips, curls a hand around the back of his neck, and kisses him back.

The oven timer dings. 

-

The cake has to cool for twenty minutes before they (well, just Brandon) can ice it. 

“You know,” Brandon says, kisses along Andrew’s jaw. “I bet I could get you off before the cake is ready.”

Andrew laughs, wraps his arms around his neck. “Honestly,” he says, “I bet you could, too.” He kisses Brandon on the mouth, then says, “But, um, maybe we can just like—cuddle, a little bit. I really… missed that.”

Brandon looks at him for a long moment and then leads him to the couch, stretches out on his back and then reaches for Andrew. Andrew climbs on top of him, unabashedly puts most of his weight on him and props his chin on his chest.

“Hi,” Andrew says.

Brandon loops his arms around Andrew’s waist. “Hi,” he says. “Andy, I—really, really, I’m so _fucking_ sorry—” 

“We can do like, an apology brunch tomorrow,” Andrew interrupts. “It’s totally time for makeup snuggles. _And_ birthday snuggles. You’re on double duty, here, babe.”

Brandon laughs and tilts his head up to steal a quick kiss.

“Hey,” Andrew says, reaches a hand up to trace around the shell of his ear. “I fucking love you, B, I don’t want either of us to keep being upset. I want to figure out how to make this okay.”

“That’s—okay, yeah,” Brandon agrees, smiles at him. “I fucking love you, too, you know.”

“I know,” Andrew says, and lays his head down on Brandon’s shoulder. “If I fall asleep on you, you have to wake me up for cake.”

“Promise,” Brandon agrees, rubs his hand up and down Andrew’s back.

(They both fall asleep on the couch, all tangled up in each other. The cake stays unfrosted.

Andrew doesn’t mind at all.)

**Author's Note:**

> come hang out with me on [tumblr](http://brandonsaaders.tumblr.com) for more hockey shenanigans! now with a fully maintained level of brandon saad love and 30% more columbus blue jackets.


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